Mort Ghlinne Comhann
by Tehri
Summary: Once a year, Scotland gets oddly quiet and holes himself up in his house, deep in memories; England, Wales and Ireland want to know why, although their guesses of the cause are almost close enough.


**After a break, I come up with this... XD It's not very good, but it's something. I heard of the Massacre of Glencoe ( **http :/ en. wikipedia. org / wiki / Massacre_of_Glencoe **) after listening to the song that features in this story, a traditional Scottish song. I wrote this in honour of that gruesome event that occured 319 years ago. Take a moment and think about it...**

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"You know how he gets. We shouldn't be here."

"I know, but he'll never come to terms with it if he spends the entire day drinking, year after year."

"Listen here, we can't just barge in like this. He'll be furious!"

"He hasn't even set the dog on us."

"... Now that you say it, _that_ is odd. Normally, I would be chased by it right now for even daring to approach."

"See? I told you something's wrong."

Arthur crossed his arms, giving his two brothers a slightly triumphant look. Seamus and Merfyn groaned silently, but of course they understood why Arthur was worried. Normally, it was more or less impossible to approach the house that belonged to the oldest brother in the Kirkland family; Angus would normally let his gigantic Scottish deerhound roam free, and if he decided to sic it on someone, it wouldn't stop chasing them until he called it off. It had, for some reason, a particular dislike for Merfyn, who had been chased up a tree more than once. But right now, there was no sign of it.

"And they say that it's a gentle and extremely friendly breed," the Welshman grumbled, reluctantly stepping closer to the door. "Let's just get this over with."

Arthur shrugged and reached out to knock on the door; but just before he got to do that, a low humming could be heard from inside the house. Seamus frowned and shoved his little brother out of the way, quietly opening the door. They recognised the deep and rough voice as Angus's, and the humming slowly turned into a tune they were familiar with.

"_Oh, how peaceful is the glen,_

_Gentle the breeze,_

_As it whispers to the rocks_

_And through the trees..._

_But how quickly things can change,_

_And now the wind is blowing._

_Shadows flicker on the wall,_

_As the last embers are glowing..._"

They stepped inside, trying to move as quietly as they could. The hallway was dark, as usual, and the sole light in it came flickering down the stairs from a dimmed lamp and a doorway to the left, where the living room was. They moved towards the doorway as they listened.

"_Something's stirring in the night;_

_Unrest is welling._

_Unsuspecting sleepers dream,_

_No ill foretelling..._

_Some never wakened from those dreams,_

_Never saw the face of danger._

_Others perished at the hand_

_Of someone who was no stranger..._"

Angus sat in his old chair by the hearth, staring into the fire; he held a glass of whiskey in his hand, and by his side was, as always, the ever faithful dog, which now had its head in his lap and stared up at him with pleading eyes – almost as if it was trying to comfort him. A large hand reached out to pet it, and for a moment, a smile flickered on the Scotsman's face. He continued to sing softly, the look in his eyes betraying that he was deep in a memory.

"_Now the Sun is lying low,_

_The glen lies sleeping._

_In the shadows still and dark,_

_Someone is weeping..._

_But the Sun will rise again,_

_On the mountains and the rivers,_

_And the spirit of the glen_

_Remains forever._

_And the spirit of the glen_

_Remains forever..._"

He glanced over his shoulder and smirked slightly.

"Ye cannae sneak up on me," he said, finally acknowledging their presence. "Wha' d'ye want?"

The brothers slowly stepped into the room, Merfyn staying close to the doorway in order to have a fast escape route in case the dog decided to chase him. Seamus stepped up to Angus and snagged the rest of the whiskey.

"_Foghlaidh_ is creeped out by how you act every year on this day," he said bluntly. "I mean, seriously, we know that something is wrong, but-"

"Angus, would you just tell us what's wrong?" Arthur frowned slightly. "I have to admit, I'm a little worried... You never act like this..."

"D'ye remember wha' day it is?" Angus got to his feet and stretched, quietly walking over to where his axe stood leaned against the wall. "It's th' thirteenth o' February. Three-hundred an' nineteen years since _Mort Ghlinne Comhann_." He gave Arthur a spiteful glance. "I ought t' snap yer neck, jes' fer darin' t' come 'ere t'day. D'ye know wha' yer king authorised? D'ye know 'ow many died?"

Arthur bit his lip and nodded slowly.

"Thirty-eight," he said quietly. "As well as another forty women and children who died of exposure after their homes were burnt..."

The Scotsman smiled bitterly and nodded. He hadn't thought that Arthur had forgotten; it was difficult to forget such an event, especially when it had been authorised, even if not entirely understood, by a monarch.

"Murder under trust," he said, his voice suddenly sharp. "An fer wha'? Fer not bein' in time t' pledge allegiance t' th' monarchs, e'en tho' they tried? I ain't sayin' tha' yer king knew 'bout th' circumstances, tha' is entirely th' fault o' a childish grudge in a Lowlander an' a stupid Campbell." He sighed deeply, and for a moment he looked as if the years he had lived were too heavy a burden for him to bear. "Th' eejits... Could all 'ave been avoided, if'n Alastair 'adn't waited so long..."

He walked back to his chair, smiling faintly as he sat down and peered at his brothers.

"Come t' terms wit' it, eh," he said. "Merfyn, 'ave ye come t' terms wit' bein' forced t' be part o' th' Kingdom? An' Seamus, 'ave ye forgotten 'bout 'ow ye suffered b'cause o' Cromwell?" His flaming eyes stopped on Arthur. "An' 'ave ye e'er tried t' stop 'atin' th' frog fer wha' 'e did t' ye? 'ave ye stopped carin' 'bout wha' Rome did?" He chuckled silently. "I dinnae think so. Don't be so eager t' make me come t' terms wit' wha' appened. 's 'ard t' ferget 'bout a massacre like tha'."

Seamus seemed to relax a little, and suddenly turned away to rummage through the liquor cabinet giving a cry of delight when he found the bottle he sought.

"I knew you had one," he grinned, quickly grabbing a few glasses. "Well, if you don't want to come to terms with it, then you'll have to let us drink with you instead. Sure, me and Merfyn didn't have anything to do with Glencoe, but we're family, so I reckon that's more than enough."

Angus shrugged and gestured for them so sit down; the dog growled quietly when the Welshman inched closer, but it didn't attempt to leap at him. The three younger Kirklands sat on the floor, not bothering with looking for more chairs, and drank along with Angus; their voices filled the room as they spoke of old times, of battles they had fought against or with each other, of the doing of kings and queens, of how things might've turned out differently. At times, one would begin to sing softly, making the others fall silent and listen. But as Angus began to sing the same song they had heard when they entered the house, they joined him, being familiar with the tune and the words.

_And the spirit of the glen_

_Remains forever._

_And the spirit of the glen_

_Remains forever..._


End file.
